


and unto me no second friend

by Beth Harker (Beth_Harker)



Category: Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: Discussion of Death, Episode: s03e22 The Most Toys, Fluff, Gen, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Pining, can be read as romantic or platonic, hand holding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-16
Updated: 2020-01-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:41:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22282774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beth_Harker/pseuds/Beth%20Harker
Summary: A post ep to “The Most Toys” (S3E22).  Data has been returned to the Enterprise after his supposed death, and Geordi needs to spend some quality time around him to decompress.
Relationships: Data & Geordi La Forge, Data/Geordi La Forge
Comments: 24
Kudos: 183





	and unto me no second friend

Geordi paused outside Data’s door. The last time he’d entered his friend’s quarters had been on a somber mission to retrieve and distribute his belongings, in the wake of his supposed death. Now, he was not exactly _nervous_ , seeing as he never had been nervous around Data, but the whole situation had created a sick and racing energy that he just couldn’t seem to shake. There was a lump in Geordi’s throat, a restlessness. The knot of pain behind his eyes that came on in times of great emotion, in liue of the tears that he could not shed, remained with a vengeance. It was the sort of thing that Geordi feared might have to get worse before it went away, which meant facing it head on. 

Well, it was now or never. Geordi entered his code into the comm panel by Data’s door. It buzzed, alerting Data of his wish to enter. 

“Come in,” Data called. The door whooshed open, and Geordi walked inside. Data was there, working on that painting of his. Geordi stepped behind him to get a good look at it over his shoulder. Objects had been painted over what had previously been nothing more than a swirling nebula. In one corner there was a species of animal that Geordi could not quite make out from the painted textures his visor allowed him to see; It seemed to be emitting a bubble of some sort from its mouth. In other parts of the painting there were scatterings of squares and an object that might be a person or a statue. In the center of the nebula there was a chair. 

“Something’s gotten into you, Data,” Geordi observed. The tightness behind his eyes diminished, just a little bit. He liked it when Data pursued some of the weird notions which popped into that android brain of his. 

“I found myself inspired to try something in the absurdist style of René Magritte,” he said. His voice was softer than usual. For all that Data wasn’t supposed to have emotions, he definitely had a way of projecting an image of them. If Geordi didn’t know better, he’d say that Data was uncertain. He was quiet, rinsing his brush in a cup of water adjacent to his easel. He wiped it on a cloth, and set it aside. Geordi watched, stiff and motionless, yet also entranced by the familiar cadence of Data in motion. “I have also heard it said that great writers and artists draw from their own experiences,” said Data. “I can not help but wonder if my attempt is not somewhat too literal.” 

“You’ve just had a heck of an experience,” Geordi observed, placing a hand on Data’s elbow. Data raised his eyebrows and cocked his head to the side. 

“Yes,” he said. “It is good to see you, my friend.” 

That no-tears tight feeling exploded like mad at those words, but Geordi also found himself breaking into an easy grin in a way that he hadn’t in days. “You have no idea.” 

“Would you like to sit and talk with me? I could synthesize you a drink.” 

“I’ll pass. On the drink. Not the sitting. I’m all for sitting.” 

“I would never ask you to sit against your will.” 

Now it was Geordi’s turn to tilt his head to the side, a mannerism which he’d probably picked up from Data. He’d heard Vulcans refer to humanity’s propensity to mirror the actions of those close to them as a sort of pack bonding behavior. Normally, Geordi would not be aware of such things, but he was now. 

Geordi took a seat, and Data sat down across from him, hands on his knees. 

“A query.” 

“Shoot.” 

“Several members of the crew have come to return my possessions to me. I understand that it is traditional in many cultures to distribute items belonging to the recently diseased among his cohorts.” 

“Sentiment,” Geordi explained. He rubbed his hands, which were suddenly sweaty, against his knees. “It’s a matter of sentiment, like your holograph of Tasha.” 

“I am aware. What perplexes me is that you are my closest friend, and yet you did not take anything for yourself.” 

Geordi made a sound that was trying to be a laugh, but certainly didn’t sound happy. “Guess I wasn’t in the market for _things_. What I wanted was you.” 

“Ah,” Data said, in that abrupt way of his. Then, almost as an after thought, he added, “It seems that in the estimations of many I am a ‘thing’. A very curious thing, from what I have been told.” 

“We all know that’s bullshit. Excuse my French.” 

“That was not French. What you have just spoken is an English profanity, in which one invokes the image of the fecal matter of a male cow in order to represent the concept of nonsense, stupidity, tripe, claptrap, blather, blarney— Do you not wish to stop me?” 

“You know what? It’s been too long since I heard your voice. I’m gonna let you have this one.” 

“Very well. Balderdash, guff, hogwash, malarkey, hooey, bunk, hot air, baloney, flapdoodle—”

At that something broke in Geordi. He laughed. He laughed so hard that his sides hurt, and his heart didn’t hurt so much anymore. When he looked up again, Data’s eyebrows were raised high, but he did not seem displeased. 

“It’s not you,” Geordi said. “It’s flapdoodle. That word is—” he spread out his hands, unable to explain. “You know, in a way, I guess it _is_ you. It’s just such a relief to have you back.” 

“I agree. I have often reflected as of late that I would rather be here than any of place in the universe.” 

On impulse, Geordi reached out and placed his hand on top of Data’s. The android looked down at it, processing. 

“The joining of hands can represent many things,” Data observed. “Love, for example. Or solace.” 

“You want me to stop?” 

“I do not.” Data he lifted his free hand, and used it to cover Geordi’s. For all the time that Geordi had spent with Data, he didn’t often have contact with him in this way. More often than not, when Geordi touched Data for any real length of time, it was because he was doing repairs of some sort. Geordi took in several deep breaths, enjoying the sensation. This whole _solace_ thing was a hell of a drug. 

Maybe it lasted too long. It was possible, certainly, that Data sat just a little too still through this moment that he and Geordi were sharing. If he did not blink quite enough, and if the intervals at which he did so we just a bit too perfectly timed, Geordi certainly wasn’t going to say anything. It was all part of what made Data the individual that he was, a person who Geordi wouldn’t trade for any other, and hoped never to come so close to losing again.

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from a line from the poem In Memoriam, by Alfred Lord Tennyson. 
> 
> The bit about human pack bonding is very much something I absorbed from various discussions and memes on Tumblr, and decided to attribute to Vulcans. 
> 
> This is my first time writing Star Trek the Next Generation fic since around 1999, and also the first Next Gen story I’ve ever posted on the internet. As such, comments are incredibly appreciated.


End file.
